


incentivization

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Plug, Established Relationship, Late Seasons, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 07:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam knows Dean's having a hard time, and he plans a surprise to cheer him up.





	incentivization

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winchestersinthedrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/gifts).



It wasn’t so much a problem getting Dean to go to a strip club. He’s usually good to go as soon as the promise of cheap drinks and smiling women are on the horizon, and really, Sam has never minded that. Well—okay, he doesn’t mind it  _now._  It’s been a hard few weeks, a hard month. What month isn’t, really. Now, though, with how hard Dean’s been taking everything, Sam just wants—

“Are you kidding me,” Dean says, eyes bright in the wash of neon lights. Sam shrugs, keeping his smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Sammy, are you  _kidding_ me,” he says again, delight all through his voice, and he pushes open the ridiculous pleather doors and—yes, Sam looked on the website ahead of time, and it is indeed Cowgirl Night at Cherry’s. He follows Dean into the dim interior, already rolling his eyes at the terrible pop country song that’s playing, but there’s a girl down to her assless chaps and a fringed bra on stage, bouncing around as someone urges her to save a horse.

The guy at the door looks at their suits and waves them in and Dean makes a beeline for a booth, about halfway between the stage and the bar. Sam sits carefully on the other side of the table, content to look for now. The hunt wasn’t too bad and they’re not going to drive back home to the bunker until the morning, so this—this should be good. A girl wearing a cowboy hat and not much else comes smiling up to the table and Dean gives her his biggest grin and says, “Howdy, ma’am, mighty fine place you got here,” and Sam just leans back into the booth and resigns himself to an evening of Dean’s charm.

The beer’s cheap and the girls are—well,  _young_ , but they’re beautiful, too, and more importantly Dean’s smiling. He applauds when one of the girls finishes her dance, and cheerfully tucks a five into the sparkly western-themed bra on their waitress when she brings them a new round of drinks. One girl who can’t be more than five feet trots over and offers both of them lapdances, and Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean. He’ll do it, if Dean wants. Dean only laughs, though, and says, “Sorry, darlin’, you’ll have to ride some other cowboy,” but he sends her on her way with a twenty and she’s smiling genuinely when she leaves. “Sam,” Dean says, watching her ass bounce away in its frame of pink leather chaps, “this is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“Yeah?” Sam says, and Dean turns his eyes fully on Sam’s. He’s flushed, his tie undone and his eyes dark and dancing.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and clinks his bottle against Sam’s. Sam takes a swallow, and watches Dean watch him, and smiles, thinking that Dean hasn’t seen anything yet.

*

The bathroom’s dim, kind of filthy. It has locks on both sides, but Sam knows his way around a simple deadbolt and jams his pick in deep enough that the pins won’t catch if someone tries to unlock it. Dean’s tipsy at his back, laughing, saying, “Sammy, Sammy,” and Sam turns around and gathers his face in both hands and kisses his grinning mouth, licking in and tasting beer, overlaid with that sugary pink thing that the bartender had sent over, somewhere in the middle of the dance that sent them in here. Dean leans into it, groans, his hands wrapping into the lapels of Sam’s jacket.

“You hard?” Sam says, pulling back for a second, and slides one hand down. “Oh, look at that,” he says, mildly, and Dean groans and pushes into it, the line of him straining against Sam’s palm through the fine material of his slacks. God, he looks good like this—flushed and ready and  _happy_ , half-undone already in his suit. Sam walks him backward, kissing his temple and his cheek and his jaw while Dean breathes hard against his ear, until his ass fetches up against the cheap pedestal sink.

“There is no way in hell,” Dean starts—and interrupts himself with another groan when Sam palms again at the bulge of his dick and then starts undoing his belt. “Sam, you are not fucking me over a sink in a strip club.”

Sam smiles down at him, shrugging. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, and Dean looks down between them and then up at Sam again, eyebrows raised. The music changes, and Sam tugs Dean’s belt open and then the slick button on the slacks, and tugs Dean’s shirt out of the way, and then goes down to his knees in one move, ignoring the grit and nastiness of the floor in order to watch Dean’s mouth part with surprise, the deep breath he takes. Sam leans in and kisses the soft place under Dean’s belly button, just above where the line of his boxer-briefs cuts into his skin, and watches Dean’s hands curl tight over the lip of the sink out of the corner of his eye. “Can you be quiet?” Sam says, looking up again.

Dean blinks at him, already breathing open-mouthed and heavy. “Don’t think I really need to, Sammy,” he says, and yeah, the music’s loud even in here, bass-heavy and trembling the cheap lights.

“Well, try,” Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, and then Sam tugs his zip down and pulls down his briefs and there’s his dick, full and heavy and straining after a night of watching girls he’ll never fuck, and Sam ducks his head and lips a soft kiss against the base, his mouth already wet and full in anticipation, and then opens his mouth and sinks down on it, wide-open and eager.

“Oh, christ alive,” Dean says, shocked like it’s something new, and then laughs breathlessly. Sam closes his eyes, tries not to smile. He draws up slow, bobs down again slower, savors the thickness of it. Dean’s not as big as him, but that doesn’t matter—he loves it. Loves the weight, the shape, the perfect ridge of the head he can lip over, the tender give of the crown that never stops being soft, not even when Dean’s this hard. He tongues idly against the head for a moment, just appreciating, and then screws down all the way to the base, ignores the threatening pressure at the back of his throat for the way Dean gasps, one hand appearing at the back of Sam’s head and fisting into his hair, tugging. Another benefit, to be able to do this. Sam holds there, just for a minute, just to hear Dean say—”Oh my god, Sammy, your _mouth_ , what the fuck,” and then he pulls back, gasping, to smile up into Dean’s face.

“Yeah, be more smug,” Dean says, but he’s breathing hard and so it doesn’t really come off the way he thinks it does. He tucks Sam’s hair behind his ear while Sam fists the wet length of him, slowly, blinking the slight tears out of his eyes. Dean gets so slick, right away. He settles more comfortably on his knees, leans in and licks a flat swipe over the head, and smiles again at Dean’s whole-body shiver. “Are you, like, deliberately messing with me,” Dean says, and as he does there’s a rattle at the door, someone trying the handle. 

“Hey,” a guy says, muffled under the music, “stop jerkin’ off in there, I gotta piss,” and Sam snorts, has to bury his face against Dean’s hip to muffle it.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers, “this was your idea, say something,” and Sam kisses the side of his dick and whispers back, “you say something, you’re the one getting a happy ending,” and Dean says, “I hate you,” in a fiercer whisper, and Sam smacks his belly with his free hand and says, then, loud, “Sorry, buddy, I—uh, I had bad shrimp, I’m puking in here,” and Dean says  _oh my god_  again, both hands covering his face, but apparently that works because the guy says, “Oh, nasty, why would you eat anything from a strip club buffet, dude!” and Sam slips his slick fingers down to Dean’s balls where they’re still half-trapped inside his briefs and half-shouts, “I know, I’m an idiot, it’s just—it’s gonna be a minute,” while Dean spreads his legs wider and gasps above his head, and the guy says, “Nasty,” again, like he’s disappointed, and Sam shrugs at Dean’s incredulous look and goes right back down, his free arm wrapped around Dean’s lower back to hitch him closer, lips and tongue working, long sucks as he pulls up. Dean groans, his hips jerking into Sam’s mouth, and Sam goes with it, capably. This isn’t even the nastiest place they’ve done this, though admittedly it’s been a while since Sam was on his knees on the hard ground. He just—he  _loves_  getting Dean like this, sex-drunk and glowing, groaning his name, the way he shudders and moans, all his worries falling away. Dean’s thighs are starting to tremble, his hips rocking in tight little motions against Sam’s working mouth, and Sam breathes in deep through his nose and sucks harder, lets his tongue slip-slide over the underside as he goes back down, and Dean puts both hands in his hair, slides his hands through it and gets a double grip at the back of his skull, pulling just enough that it prickles all the way down Sam’s back.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, and Sam pulls off his dick, gasping, and says soft into the dark warm space between them, “Dean, I gotta tell you something,” and shifts his weight on his knees again, groans. Oh, god, he’s hard—he’d been able to put it out of his mind, but the pulse of it is thick between his legs and for a second he doesn’t want anything but to flip Dean around against the sink and fuck him, watching his face in the mirror, protest be damned. But Dean’s leaking into his hand, and he wants— “I had a plan,” he says, “I wanted to give you something,” and when he looks up Dean’s watching him, face pink and his mouth bitten to red. Sam suckles once more against the pretty head of Dean’s dick, lets the salt of it fill up his mouth, and then he puts his hands on the sink on either side of Dean’s hips and gets to his feet, knees cracking, and the shift as he stands is so intense that he groans, hips flinching forward into Dean’s.

“Sam,” Dean says, hands sliding over Sam’s shoulders, down his chest, and Sam leans in and knocks Dean’s mouth open, kisses him wide and open, lets Dean taste himself. He unbuckles his own belt, Dean’s dick brushing against the back of his hands, and then grabs one of Dean’s hands and pulls back from his mouth and watches his eyes while he pushes Dean’s hand around his hip, under the waistband of his briefs, down and down until he can feel Dean’s fingers brush the plug. Dean frowns, for a second, and then his eyes go wide and his expression almost blank, and Sam lets his grip on Dean’s hand loosen. He leans forward a little, free hand braced against the sink, and their faces are close together, they’re breathing the same air, while Dean’s fingers slip around the lube-wet base of the thing, while he circles the silicone where it’s breaking Sam’s body open.

“What,” Dean says, blinking, and looking up into Sam’s eyes. His cheeks are brick-red, his ears and throat flushed dark. 

“If you want,” Sam says, and has to clear his throat. Dean presses his fingers flat against the plug and Sam closes his eyes, just for a second. It’s not—it’s not that he doesn’t like it at all, but it’s usually not something he goes for, and the pressure is amazing even with this small thing, barely three inches, just something to hold him open, to make it easier if Dean wanted to—if he decided to— “You want to fuck me, Dean?” he says, opening his eyes, and Dean leans up and crushes their mouths together, his arms wrapping around Sam’s neck, and Sam grabs him by the waist and pushes his still-covered dick against Dean’s bare slick one, knows his slacks are getting stained and disgusting but it doesn’t matter, not with the way Dean’s shaking in his arms.

“You—” Dean says, against Sam’s mouth, and then he breathes something, so quiet Sam can’t hear it over his own breath and the thumping music, but he slips his hand down and closes it over Dean’s dick, jerks him long and slow all the way from root to head, and Dean jerks in his arms and says, breathless, “I’m gonna come, Sam, I’m—” and Sam turns him around and crushes him in against the sink, says, “Come on, let me see,” into his hair, and in the mirror Dean’s beautiful, suit wrecked, his face glowing pink and sweat gleaming at his throat, lips as dark as his dick where Sam’s fisting it, quick and hard, and his eyes are open and fixed on Sam’s in the mirror, right up until he has to squeeze them closed and he arches his back, ass grinding back into Sam’s crotch right before he shoots, dirtying up the sink, groaning out so loud that someone outside the door really could hear them. Sam wraps his other arm around Dean’s chest, works him softly, letting Dean shudder in the cage of his body, his lips pressed against the tender space under his ear, the one that only Sam touches.

Dean reaches down and stills Sam’s hand, after a minute, and lays his other hand over Sam’s arm, circles his fingers around Sam’s wrist. It takes a minute for his eyes to open, but when they do they find Sam’s, right away.

“You’re a menace,” Dean says, after a few seconds.

Sam shrugs. He lets his thumb stroke at the root of Dean’s dick, in the damp short hair, and Dean bites his lip. God. Dean says enough when Sam’s mouth is on him that Sam knows he doesn’t exactly dislike it, but Dean—he’s got no idea of his own appeal, and that’s saying something for one of the most sexually smug people Sam’s ever met. “What do you think?” Sam says. He’s—god, his dick’s almost painful, and he feels—wetter, somehow, more open, just from Dean touching him. The plug’s unignorable now.

Dean takes a deep breath. “You’re gonna help me clean up, Sexzilla,” he says, “and then we’re going to figure out a way to leave this place so we don’t get arrested, and then I’m gonna drive back to the motel.”

Sam lets go of Dean’s dick and turns his chin, carefully with his slick soiled hand, and kisses him, gentle and shallow. When he pulls back, Dean’s face is soft, open, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Then what,” Sam says.

“That’s for me to know, Agent Rose,” Dean says, turning in Sam’s arms and putting a soft hand to his jaw, his smile relaxed and full of promise, “and for you to find out.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/167319309674/crashes-through-wall-mid-coffee-bj-in-the)


End file.
